


Imsh the Soft

by icarus_chained



Category: Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: Clerics, Dungeons & Dragons Pantheons, Fantasy, Gen, Gods & Goddesses, Halflings, Healers, Motherhood, New Family, Orc Culture, Orcs, Original Fiction, Religion, Self-Exile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24361534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: The tale of Imsh the Soft, an orc who left his tribe before his weakness could damage them any further. The tale of Imsh the Soft, Cleric of Luthic ... and then Yondalla.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 124





	Imsh the Soft

**Author's Note:**

> The thing I really love about clerics as a concept, in a world where the gods can get right up and personal, is how many chances you have for that 'meeting god in the wilderness' moment. Clerics are their god's personal chosen. For every cleric who felt touched by some vast, distant grace, there's as many who got picked up by the ankle out of a gutter by their god. Or stumbled across their gods bleeding in the woods. Or what have you. It's lovely. Heh.

Imsh had never been clever, nor quick. Strong, yes, he could be strong, and he could see into people, as few others did, but he was not clever, and he was not quick. Those might have been forgivable. Likely _would_ have been forgivable. You didn’t need cleverness to fight, and slowness only meant that you would not run. But Imsh was also something else, something that no tribe could ever tolerate, not if they wanted to stay alive and strong.

Imsh was _soft_. 

The mothers had known. From the beginning. They had seen how he had tried to shield other whelps, to block the blows that would strengthen them, that would teach them to fight and to stand for themselves. They had seen him try to patch up small hurts, to take away the scars that would mark the strength and endurance of his orc siblings. The mothers had seen his weakness, and how he had unwittingly tried to spread it to those around him.

He might have died then. Might have been carefully culled out and taken to be with Shargaas. But the mothers had hoped there might be another use for him. If he could learn. If he could understand. The young ones did need to be protected. He just had to learn how to allow their strength, and not spread his own weakness to them.

He had tried. He _did_ understand. Orcs had to stand alone. Only by their own strength could they live. There would be no mothers when the other races came for them in the world. He could protect them in the whelping dens, but nowhere else. He understood that. The mothers were right. Softness had no place in the tribe. So, he had … tried.

And he had done well enough, for a time. Enough to be blessed by the Cave Mother, Luthic herself. He could heal when necessary, to hold together the strongest of them to fight again, to continue to lead the tribe. He could heal the mothers through birth, so that their strength would not be lost to the tribe for the sake of unproven whelps. When it gave _strength_ , not weakness, he could heal. He could protect. He had her claws, to defend the future of his tribe. He had her powers, to keep them strong. He had … done well. For a time. 

But he was soft. It had never changed, that thing inside him. That weakness and that instinct. He had never … been strong enough to teach the young the strength they needed. To be harsh and vicious and encouraging as an orc should be. 

You cannot learn strength from a cloud. No matter how sharp his claws. And some of them had learned softness instead. Some had learned to come to him, when their strength was not enough.

He had seen the turn, then. In the mothers, mostly. The rest of the tribe had always disdained him. While he had their support, while he stayed to the whelping pens, it had not mattered. But he had felt the mothers turn. He had felt them begin to despair.

He knew their choice, then, and understood it too. How long could they risk his softness spreading? How long could they balance his healing against the weakness at his core? 

How many young could they let him poison? In good conscience. How many could they let him weaken enough to die, when all the rest of the world came against them?

He knew, when the warmth and burn faded from his Rune of Luthic, when his healing ran dry in his hands, that his hurt had finally outweighed his help. That he had given all he could that would strengthen the tribe, and that all he could do now was damage them. The mothers turned from him. They stopped speaking to him, stopped striking him, stopped _teaching_ him. Instead, when he looked at them, they looked to the back of the caves. To Shargaas’ gate, and the only choice remaining to him, if he had the strength and the courage to serve the tribe one last time.

But Imsh … Imsh was soft. And weak. And he had not wanted to walk to Shargaas’ realm.

So he had walked out, instead. Into the world. He was … slow. He had always been slow. He was heavy and lumbering and ponderous. He did not run. He did not sneak. He walked. Out of the cave. Out of the tribe. 

They could have killed him. They could have fought him, one last time, the warriors in their strength, the mothers in their wisdom. They could have stopped him, could have caught him, could have thrown him to the ground and torn him apart as a lesson to all the young who’d taken his weakness to their hearts. They could have killed him. But they didn’t.

Soft things died in the world. There was no need to waste their claws or their strength. 

Imsh understood that, too. 

He stopped at the mouth of the cave. Just for a moment. He thought … thought to pray to Luthic one last time. To the Mother who had given him so much, _taught_ him so much, before his weakness betrayed her. He thought to pray to her, to offer …

But there was nothing. His sorrow was a weakness in itself, and no gift to her. The only thing left was what he should have offered years ago, had he the courage. To weaken the tribe no more.

He touched the wall, once. Left her Rune carefully at the mouth. And walked out.

Soft things died in the world. He had never had any doubt. He had never seen much of it. The whelping pens were where he could best serve the tribe, so he had stayed there. The sun and the world had been a new thing to him. But he had no doubt that they would kill him. 

An orc alone, an orc weak, who had never fully mastered the instinct to strike, was a dead orc.

And Imsh was the slowest, and softest, and weakest of all orcs.

It was not a quick death. But then, Imsh had never been the quickest at anything. He was slow, and patient, and far too cautious for an orc. He wandered out into the world beyond the cave, the world of men and elves and dwarves, and he did not die. Not for a season. Not for two. Long enough to learn the feeling of sunshine. Long enough to learn how to catch and kill and eat. Long enough to learn how to mend his own hurts, without the magic of Luthic to help him. 

By strength alone. By endurance. She truly had taught him so much better than he had taught others. They had been right all along. The mothers. He had known.

So it might have been a long, slow death. He was a soft thing, just strong enough to keep going, not strong enough to win. Not fierce enough to quicken the end. He felt no urge to try his claws. There was nothing to protect, except himself, and a tribe of one was no tribe at all. It would have been long, and it would have been slow. Much as Imsh himself.

Except for the woman in the woods. Except for the small, wounded thing. Soft and bleeding.

A halfling, he’d thought. Watching her cautiously from afar. A wounded, bleeding halfling, her hair bright and red-gold, panting and crying against a tree. Her whole side was stained. A dangerous wound for the strongest warrior. An end, plain and simple, for something so small and frail as her.

He didn’t mean to move. He did not intend to approach her. She was nothing. Not an orc, not tribe. No gift to Luthic, to help her. More likely a betrayal. But there was nothing out here. No tribe but a tribe of one. And he had always been so soft. The first and last and most enduring of his weaknesses, enough that not even the Cave Mother herself could drive it out. He moved slowly and ponderously to the halfling’s side.

She didn’t try to run. Too wounded, but she didn’t try. Maybe there was some orc to her. She looked up at him, her hand tight and red in her wound, and … closed her eyes. Laughing quietly. A strange sort of sound.

A whelp whose strength had run out. Not really. No orc. But Imsh couldn’t help the instinct, and no longer really had a reason to try.

He squatted down beside her, and lifted her red hand firmly from the wound. She made a noise. Not quite a cry. He rumbled awkwardly at her. Pressed his other hand to the top of her head briefly, a touch he’d used with the young ones. Quelling, but not strong enough to hurt. She was so small, his hand nearly swallowed her head. He gripped it carefully, and then moved both hands to her side, to peel away cloth and examine the wound.

It was … bad. Too bad to fix, not without Luthic’s magic. His few bits of collected medicines would do almost nothing at all. He felt a little twinge of sorrow. Another ancient bit of weakness. But there was nothing to do. She was too weak, and too small.

He looked down at her. Her eyes, not her wound. He had a soft face. She saw. She had to see.

“That bad, huh?” she asked in Common. Then she laughed.

“… Yes,” Imsh said, slowly and thickly. His Common was bad, and his voice rusty. An orc alone. And a halfling, too. All alone. Two tribes of one, and dying for it. Like all soft things. “Too much to fix. No magic left. Can wash. Can try. Won’t be enough.”

Lies were the province of Shargaas. He wasn’t going to start _that_.

She closed her eyes again. Curled trembling hands against her chest. “Okay,” she whispered. Trying to strengthen herself. “I knew that. Okay.” Then she looked up at him, and her mouth widened into a bloody, exhausted sort of grin. “So. Gonna finish me off, then? Mister Orc?”

It was strange, to see a thing so openly afraid. So unashamedly weak. It was … It would be better to leave her to die. Faster. A quick death. All soft things died. She was no orc, and he had no tribe. It would be better to leave. Or to … Her head was small. Her neck. She was weaker than him. He could quicken her death, like she asked. It might almost be a softness.

She wasn’t an orc, though. She was a halfling. She didn’t look like she wanted a quickened end.

Imsh looked down at her for a moment. He pressed his hand absently to her wound, big enough to cover the whole of her side. There was a lot of blood, far more blood than it looked like a tiny thing like her should hold. There wasn’t much he could do that would either help or hurt now. But he could … try. Luthic would not approve, nor the mothers either. But he was a tribe of one. It wouldn’t hurt them now. And the halfling was already too far gone.

He tapped her cheek gently with a claw. “Place to go?” he asked softly, when she looked at him. “Can wash. Tie. Make time. Place to go, for … for help?”

She wouldn’t last, not unless they were very near. Too much blood, and Imsh had always been slow. But he could try. He thought she might want it. Like the whelps who’d come to him when their strength ran out. Wanting … a thing to lean on. It wouldn’t make a difference. Her weakness had killed her already. But he could still try.

She blinked up at him. Small and shaking. For a good second or two, like the words didn’t make sense. Maybe they didn’t. His words were thick and clumsy in this tongue. But then she reached towards the hand he still held to her side. “Please,” she said. Curling numb red fingers around his claws. “South. Please.” 

Imsh nodded, and pulled his rough pouch, his few medicines, around his side.

She didn’t last. He’d known she wouldn’t. The mothers had taught him how to measure strength. She died in his arms, like the whelps who came out only half-born, too weak to survive. He carried her a little further anyway. The old … the old instinct. His sorrow a weakness in itself, and no gift.

He didn’t know what halflings did with their dead. He thought they would kill him if he tried to find out. No bad thing, maybe. A tribe of one was no tribe at all. But he still didn’t want to walk to Shargaas’ realm.

So he only carried her, a little while longer. Until night started to fall. A small, soft thing, who had been no weaker really than him.

He didn’t flinch, when she vanished in his arms. When her small red body fell apart into little motes of golden light. He froze. Startled, stunned. But didn’t flinch. He’d felt … there was a feeling, when it happened. Something half-familiar. He’d felt it once, a long time ago.

When the Cave Mother first touched him.

The halfling reappeared in front of him. Not red, now. Not anymore. She stood there, whole and strong and golden. Her hands on her hips, and an odd expression on her face. He had never seen one like it before. He didn’t know what it meant.

“What an odd orc you are,” she said curiously. A soft sort of voice. “Do you know who I am?”

Imsh shook his head. He knew … She was a god. A halfling god. But he didn’t know her name. He didn’t know if she was like Luthic, or Gruumsh, or even Shargaas. 

“My name is Yondalla,” she said. He didn’t know what that meant. She smiled faintly. Smaller and less red than her other smiles. “I am … the protectress. The halflings are my children. It is my job to defend them, and to help them.”

Oh. Like Luthic, then. Imsh bowed his head, and raised his claws to acknowledge her.

He only belatedly thought that for a soft thing like a halfling, that might not be a sign of respect. But she smiled anyway, and moved closer to catch his hand. To curl clean fingers around his claws.

“You didn’t kill me,” she noted softly. “One of my children, wounded. You didn’t kill her.”

Imsh … hesitated. Was she a mother like the halflings were supposed to be, a soft thing? Or was she a mother like Luthic? Should he have quickened her end? But he didn’t … It didn’t make a difference. He had been soft, as always. If Luthic in all her strength and wisdom couldn’t change him, the halfling god couldn’t either. He could only wait for her judgement.

“… Couldn’t help,” he said carefully. To answer her. “Didn’t need to hurt. Too late.” 

She tilted her head at him. “Couldn’t help,” she repeated. Thoughtfully. “Because you do try to help first, don’t you. You were a healer. One of Luthic’s. But you don’t have any magic left.”

Imsh grimaced. Nodded slowly. “Hurt more than helped. Made young ones weak. Soft. Cave Mother had to choose. Chose tribe. Only choice.”

The halfling goddess digested this. Thought about it very carefully.

“Halflings,” she said, carefully. “Do not view things like that. We find that help … makes us strong. Not soft. Our tribes are stronger together.”

Imsh nodded easily. “Small ones stand together,” he agreed. “Orc must stand alone. No other to help. All stand against him. Must not make him weak. No help outside the whelping pens.” He paused, and looked at her now-whole side. “Soft things die alone. Even small ones. Orcs last longer.”

Maybe he shouldn’t say it. It was a bad idea to argue with a mother. But the goddess laughed.

“I suppose,” she said. Then, more sadly. “I supposed we do often die alone when there is no one to help. Halflings and orcs alike. But I don’t think my people could learn to be strong as Luthic’s do. I don’t think I would want them to. I’d rather they learned how to give and ask for help instead.”

Ah. Definitely a halfling mother. Imsh’s chest twinged. He knew that weakness. Sorrow was no gift.

“Soft,” he said quietly. Nudging her chest gently with his claws. “Soft mother.”

She blinked, and then laughed. A very wet sort of laugh. 

“Yes,” she said, nodding firmly. “Oh yes. A very soft mother. Though I will protect them, you know. I will kill for them. All my children. Soft as I may be, I _will_ see them safe.”

And here, for the first time, she felt like the Cave Mother. Small and golden and soft as she was. She felt like the great bear stirring in the depths of the den. Baring her teeth and her claws. Imsh responded instinctively. Bared his own in response. Tusks and claws, in honour of the ... 

Of a Mother. No less than Luthic, when the world came for her children.

He bowed his head, and curled his claws around her tiny hand.

“Mother,” he said. “Soft. But still a mother.”

The goddess smiled at him. Like a tiny sunrise. It had taken him so long to get used to the sun.

“Yes,” she said. “And all mothers must defend their children. Heal them and help them, and teach them how to be strong.” She paused, and looked at him long and thoughtfully, her hand suddenly tight and strong around his claws. “And some mothers, more than others, look for those who can help them with that. Mothers of peoples too small to stand alone. Mothers like that might look … for people who feel an instinct to help.”

She looked at him. Imsh understood. He knew what she meant. What she _asked_. He found himself leaning back, something shuddering in his chest. Something soft and weak and uncertain. He would have pulled his hand away, but she held it fast. As strong as any mother.

“Halflings are not orcs,” the goddess continued, shining up at him fiercely. “I cannot make the choice Luthic made. I have to look for help first. And I think you are a helper at heart. Even when it would be better for you not to be. I think if I put my children in your hands, you would try to protect them. Wouldn’t you.”

Imsh flinched. Shuddered. She asked …

“Will not hurt tribe,” he managed. Thick and pained. “If cannot help, will not hurt. Please.”

A soft plea. Weak. Soft things died in the world. A lone orc was a dead orc. But he could not hurt the tribe any more.

And she … understood. The halfling goddess. She softened.

“You cannot hurt my tribe by helping them,” she said quietly. Softly. “Halflings are not orcs. It will not make us any softer than we already are. And I will not ask you to hurt your tribe. I have no quarrel with Luthic. Her husband, yes, when he comes for my children, but not his wife. When your warriors come for my children, then, yes, I might ask you to make a choice. But not before. I have no need to hurt those who have not yet hurt me.”

Imsh didn’t … He didn’t know how to answer that. He had already failed Luthic. His weakness had betrayed her. To help others, people who were not orcs, people who might fight them …

But he had done it anyway. Already. He had picked up a wounded halfling woman. Had carried her, and failed to snap her neck. Another weakness. Or the same one. Always the same one. Imsh the Soft, spreading weakness among the tribe. Holding up those too weak to hold themselves.

Because when it came to it, when they were there and wounded, he couldn’t help it.

He did not pray to Luthic. Did not offer up one more last prayer. She had seen enough of his weakness, and his sorrow was no gift. He sighed heavily instead, and crumpled down to squat before Yondalla. Another mother. A different mother. Maybe she could teach him something too.

“Can heal. Not good, without magic, but can heal. Whelps. Mothers in whelping. Can keep them alive. And … protect too. Take blows. Should not, for orcs. Makes weak. But I can. This will help?”

Yondalla blinked at him, and then smiled like sunshine again. Like a tiny sun.

“It will help,” she said, bright and warm and expansive, reaching back over to take his hands again. Small and confident around his claws. “An orc midwife, a _male_ orc midwife, may take some getting used to for some, but it will help. A healer and a helper and a protector. All of these will help my tribe. If you’re willing to give them.”

Imsh grimaced again. He was … He was too soft to help a tribe, even a halfling tribe, for very long. He had always known that. A mother, she would know it soon too. But he could help until his hurt outweighed it. When it gave strength, not weakness, he could heal. He could protect. He still had Luthic’s claws, to defend the future of a tribe. 

A healer, a helper, a protector. If it would help, he could be all those things. Yes.

He nodded tiredly. “Can give,” he said roughly. “Protect young. Help the tribe. Can do that. If Halfling Mother asks.”

Her smile softened. One more time. She cupped his big hands in hers.

“Yondalla,” she said. “My name is Yondalla. And yours?”

“Imsh,” Imsh said. A little wryly. “Imsh the Soft.”

She laughed. The halfling Mother Goddess. She leaned in, as big and strong as any bear stirring in the depths. His hands went warm between hers. Bathed in motes of golden light. When she pulled them softly open, a sign lay cupped between his claws. A Rune. The Rune of Yondalla the Protectress.

“Welcome then,” she said brightly. While her light spread through him, and her magic, her healing, settled in his hands. “Welcome to my tribe, Imsh the Soft. Welcome … Cleric of Yondalla.”

And Luthic would not approve of that, Imsh thought. Not at all. But he was too soft, and it was too late. He would help while he could, and when it was done, he would do as all orcs did in the end.

He would answer to his mothers. As he always had.

**Author's Note:**

> I am cobbling together an orcish culture out of various bits and bobs I've read. The orc pantheon is fascinating. Luthic most of all, but also Shargaas, the god of murder and darkness and culling within the tribe, in a dark sort of way. Heh. Not sure how orc deities and halfling deities _actually_ get on, but I'm going to run with Luthic and Yondalla having a bit of a distant respect going for the sake of this piece.


End file.
